In the Lee of the Woods

THERE are winter days when you can see frost particles shining in the sun. This fairy snow never seems to reach the ground, yet is always on its way thither; and sometimes you must look sharp to see it, even though the air is filled with its shining.

On a windy clear day you can find this fairy snow in the lee of the woods, but hardly elsewhere. If the woods chance to be evergreen, so much the better; look across the low-rising sun and you will see the silver particles dancing against the green boughs and black trunks.

A power saw stands beside the woodhouse door — an ancient tool, veteran of many a battle with the knots and fibres of what until yesterday were trees. When the gasoline engine is running, the whole assembly rocks on its base like an old man; but, like a staunch old man, it keeps going somehow. Phutphut! We ’re off. Five of us — four men and the antiquated engine of destruction, and the greatest of these is the engine. It will do more work in a day than twenty men could do by hand — an obedient, palsied slave, phut-phutting its life away, oblivious of heat or cold or frost particles glinting in the sun.

Pacemaker, too! All our dispositions of man power are made for the purpose of keeping the saw supplied with wood; all our nicely adjusted coöperative movements are timed to accord with those of the saw. Two of us pass wood to the sawyer, who owns the saw and to whose ears every bark of the motor and every squeal of the steel speaks a message. He places our offerings on a platform, tilts it; the teeth begin to bite sawdust flies. Meantime the fourth man, standing across the platform, has placed his mittened hands firmly upon the other end of the stick, and when the cut is complete he whisks the sawn end away and into the shed, there to season under cover until wanted.

In time we acquire a nice technique, each going through his part of the task without lost motion, each being where he is supposed to be at every stage. The spirit of the group, the will to common labor, takes hold of us. Though we say nothing whatever about it, or about anything else, the conviction grows that we are a grand gang of wood sawyers, and that we could hold our own with any outfit in the country.

Sooner or later the top sawyer is sure to lift a detaining hand. We stop in our tracks, fumbling in our pockets for pipes and tobacco. Not a bad thing that machines occasionally have to be fed water, oil, and fuel; otherwise their human assistants would likewise have to be made of iron in order to stand the gaff.

‘ Great day for outdoor work,’ I observe.

‘ It is, you know,’ answers one of the men promptly and decisively. That is a colloquialism I have noticed nowhere outside of our bit of country. Say the most obvious thing to one of our neighbors, and the odds are you will receive in reply that complete and dignified rejoinder: ‘It is, you know.’ There is no taint of smartness about the phrase — just matter-of-fact decisiveness. I cannot imagine a light, vain people using such a phrase habitually.

Before starting the motor on its second run, a debate ensues as to whether the saw should be moved. Question of bringing the wood to the saw or the saw to the wood. Decided by the top sawyer; it appears that he was merely sounding out the common sense of the gang by raising the question, and in no sense abrogating his authority as gang boss. He canvassed the delegation and then did as he pleased. The good old democratic way. As paymaster I might have had my way; but long ago I discovered that whosoever crosses a craftsman loses, and that he who enters a new country should watch his step.

There is a song of the saw for someone to write; it has a different note with each kind of wood —now rising to an angry snarl, now whining abjectly, now singing triumphantly. A native versed in such matters will recognize these notes as far as sound carries, and say, ‘Taylor’s working on ash this morning,’ while yet it requires an effort for a dense-eared immigrant like myself to hear the faint whirr of a distant saw.

Always the top sawyer keeps an eye on the safety of his staff. We carters are not permitted to down our logs helter-skelter, because many a good man has gone to his death during sawing by tripping and falling upon the whirling teeth. So the two of us stand there at rest, the dead weight of the wood sagging our shoulders, until the platform is clear for our burden. I have often thought a painter might make something of us thus, with the snow-lighted forest for a background, the sun dancing on our revolving wheel, and the men poised in the unconsciously noble attitudes of toil. From time to time, too, we scatter fresh sawdust over the snow, the better to keep our heavily shod feet from slipping. A painter who caught that blend of warm brown and cold white accurately would have something to show for his pains.

Toward evening, the wind still holding from the west, we rake the trash of our operations together, and start a little bonfire of chips, branches, and sliced ends. Our working space must be clear for the morrow. The others troop off at dusk to their homes and chores; I stay to tend the fire. Prompt Venus glimmers into sight even before true dark sets in; but there is an early full moon these nights, and the green beauty of the planet fades before the dazzle of Earth’s satellite. This is the best of all ways to end a day — on a log beside a fire under the stars. As the moon tops Whitheck’s pines, I kick snow over the glowing embers and set out for the house, in my body a growing languor and in my mind a raging curiosity over what we shall have for supper.